


Underneath the Mistletoe

by surexit



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:45:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surexit/pseuds/surexit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's hung something in the doorway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath the Mistletoe

“Hey, look up,” Bucky says, from behind Steve, and Steve frowns. There’s something odd in Bucky’s voice, something a little like a tremor, although Steve would never describe it that way because Bucky’s voice doesn’t do that.

He looks up, because he trusts Bucky.

There’s something, a little brown something, tied with some of Bucky’s darning yarn thread to the rusty nail that won’t come out of the door frame, no matter how hard they lever it. Steve can’t make out what's hanging at first, and he turns round to look at Bucky questioningly. Bucky’s face is very still, and he doesn’t respond to Steve’s stare, so Steve peers at the plant again. It’s wilted and browned and dead, but something in the shape of the rounded little leaves and rotting berries stirs a memory in Steve’s mind. He saw this plant just a few weeks ago, little bunches of it festooned around the taxi dance hall Bucky took him to. He’s not sure what it’s doing here. There’s one obvious comment to make, though.

“It’s January.” He looks back at Bucky.

Bucky shrugs. “Didn’t have the guts at Christmas,” he says, and Steve can see the strain at the corner of his eyes, how hard he’s trying to seem like he doesn’t really care about the conversation.

“The guts for... oh. _Oh_.” Things settle into place in Steve’s head, slowly, but with the inevitability of a lock clicking. He can feel his eyes widen, just a little, his jaw loosen.

Bucky puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out, and then shifts from foot to foot. “Look,” he says finally, suddenly. “You don’t have to. I mean, obviously. I’ll - we just won’t talk about this again. You know they say it might be inborn? Something in your head, you know.” He puts his hands in his pockets again. Steve notices they’re shaking slightly. “But I can...” He trails off, staring at Steve pleadingly.

“Okay,” Steve says abruptly. The sound of his own voice almost startles him.

Bucky rocks back on his heels, eyes fixed on Steve’s face. “Okay?” he says, slowly.

Steve puts his chin up, and doesn’t say anything else. Bucky nods, and takes a few steps forwards.

Steve’s breathing stays steady, strong but for the faint wheeze he can feel on each inhale, but he can hear Bucky’s breaths hitch, just for half a second, as he leans down. And then Steve can’t hear anything, because it all whites out in a moment of sheer panic when Bucky’s lips touch his. He’s flung himself off some kind of precipice, and the ground is rushing up to meet him, and this was all a dreadful, dreadful mistake.

Bucky’s really warm. He smells of soap, and his lips rest, dry and gentle, against Steve’s. No one shouts or screams or bangs on the door, nothing happens. Outside the badly-fitting apartment windows, New York carries on like it did a moment ago, unaware that there is a crime happening in one little squalid room among thousands of little squalid rooms.

Bucky tilts his head away. “Okay?” he says, anxious lines around his eyes.

Steve reaches out to brace a hand on the doorframe. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Yes.”


End file.
